


Water Under The Bridge

by NorthChill



Series: The Element Series [1]
Category: Lost Boys (Movies), The Lost Boys (1987)
Genre: Being a vampire in love sucks, Implied/Referenced One Sided Incest, M/M, Tribe!verse, Unrequited Love, Vampire Alan, Vampire Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-27
Updated: 2017-03-27
Packaged: 2018-10-11 18:18:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10471131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NorthChill/pseuds/NorthChill
Summary: Sam is six feet under, and has no idea how he got there.





	

**Author's Note:**

> 2011!fic reupload. Edited.

Sam is buried seven feet under, and he has no idea how he got there.

He's not dead.

Well, he is. Sort of.

He doesn't know what exactly being a vampire actually means in terms of the giant, sparkly spectrum of unlife, so he presumes he is half dead. Which must mean, he is still half alive. You see, to Sam, that's pretty weird. Sam is half dead yet he has never felt more alive, more vibrant and vigorous, in his life.

He's lying face up, in solid darkness. His supernatural eyes puncture through the immersive shadow with ease. He can feel the weight, the dense mass of earth, pressing thunderously down on the lid of the small casket. He licks his lips, desperately thirsty, and grins, pointed teeth budding from bloodied gums. It's a damn good thing he isn't claustrophobic. Edgar couldn't bear being stuck in a broom cupboard; there was no way in hell he could have coped with this treatment.

Sam scratches his talons across the oak top of his coffin in resigned boredom. It's rather spiffy actually, polished wood and blue satin, all very well suited to his personal tastes. Black and red is completely overrated, and one can argue that is more Alan's game.

Sam's memories are crystal clear, shining television screens of crisp clarity, and as Sam counts the hours till sundown, he indulges in them.

He wasn't taken with Edgar at first, on that fateful summer night in 1987. The boy was too hard faced, too stoic and serious to be openly friendly. He'd pushed that damn comic into his hands with all the solitary wisdom of a world weary teacher, obviously genre savvy, and later, Sam would start to find that determined look on his face endearing.

He wasn't stupid. He detected the hidden warmth behind his friend's gruff visage, and subtly drawing it out became one of his favourite past times. And even after the vampires, after they are scrubbed the brain fluids from the carpets and hosed down the bathroom and replaced the stereo, did Sam find himself shocked by the fact that they remained friends…even through school, where he befriended good looking boys with stud earrings and toothy smiles….it was the Frogs, the awkward twosome that held his attention, and later, a lifetime's worth of loyalty.

Sam flexes his knees, chaffing his black suit against the lid. He picks at the material, and grimaces in distaste. This is Michael, this is. Typical for him, poor sap, but at least he missed him. He'd been floating in and out of consciousness for so long, his body aching and winding like an old clock in an attempt to regenerate itself, but he'd managed to scavenge bits and pieces of conversation. Tiny shreds of life placed above his earth, his coffin, his temporary resting place.

Michael had been weeping quietly, curling earth beneath his fingers, and Sam…for a brief moment, would have done anything to push through the soil and whisper that yes, he was alive. This had all been some bizarre misunderstanding…that he'd pulled a David, and was in reality, in perfect, undead health.

He'd heard shouts, and what sounded like Lucy screaming at Michael to hold back. There was the sound of something hard cracking against bone; and Edgar's low grunt of pain.

Blood had seeped through the ground, wept through the cracks of dirt and earthworms, and Sam could smell it…iron tinged heaven.

Edgar's blood, and somehow…that made it so much more special.

He almost tore through the coffin lid at that point, if he hadn't felt the burning scream of the sun baking the earth in a silent warning.

Mike had swung at his best friend. Classy. Real classy, Michael. But that was typical Mike…always thinking with his heart instead of his head when the situation called for it. Damn, he misses his brother.

He continues to glower upwards into the lid, into the foul embrace of dank earth, and feels the curve of his incisors with his tongue.

He misses Edgar Frog.

.

.

.

_Edgar, Edgar, Edgar._

_Edgar has just turned seventeen. Alan is lounging on the floor, already dead to the world; wrapped in a blanket and Nanook. They're having one of their ritualistic sleepovers at Sam's house. Lucy had been adamant Edgar would have a nice birthday…cake and presents included. The cake had been strawberry sponge, Edgar's reluctant favourite, as vampire hunters don't have favourite cake flavours, even if the sponge is deliciously squidgy and the jam thick and plentiful. Alan the chocoholic had eyed it with a vague sort of disappointment, until a smiling Lucy had promised him that for his eighteenth he could have as much chocolate as he desired._

_Alan's lips twitched at that promise. For someone like Alan, that was the equivalent of spinning on his toes and doing a handstand in jubilation._

_The presents had been new marine attire, some aftershave (Michael was so imaginative) and basic boy stuff. Edgar had gone from thankful stoicism to stammering beetroot at this show of kindness, and Sam had watched from the corner of his eye, smiling all the while._

_They are sleeping downstairs, for the bedroom is too small to hold all three of them, especially as they are older and ganglier. The television is on, basking them all in a technicoloured sheen, and Sam is lain over the couch, kicking up his back legs aimlessly. Edgar is seated below him, sleeping bag bunched around his knees, his head resting on the arm of the chair._

_"He-ey, Compadre," Sam whispers sleepily. The urge to teasingly play with Edgar's hair is making his fingers twitch. "How does it feel to be one year older?" He was going to follow this with "and uglier," but somehow, it just doesn't fit._

_Edgar yawns, and shrugs. He flicks the television off, and scoots around to face Sam properly. Sam straightens up, feeling a little foolish at being so excited at this show of being a potential confidante._

_"Really, Sam?" Edgar cocks an eyebrow. "I'm just glad to be alive." He glances over at his slumbering brother, and grins. "And not a bloodsucking son of a bitch."_

_"Nicely put," Sam responds, flopping further on his belly. He can't draw his eyes from the curve of Edgar's mouth. "Is that what you wished, huh? When you blew out the candles on your birthday cake?"_

_Edgar half smirks. A year ago, he would have frowned at Sam's naiveté, but Sam knows that deep down, in so many ways, it is Edgar who is naive._

_"Wishing is for babies," he says, and his voice rings with a hollow chill. A darkening descends on his brow, and Sam ponders when he had come to that conclusion; or when, he had stopped wishing._

_"Ah, weeelll..." Sam changes the subject, although a part of him is desperate to know everything about his friend. "Let's discuss manlier, seventeen year old things then."_

_Edgar stretches, arching his back, and damn, he is such a tease._

_"Like what?"_

_"Well..." Sam wonders if the moonlight ensnares the hungry gleam in his eyes. "Have you ever been kissed?"_

_The question throws Edgar off guard. He drops his hands, mouth pressed into a tight line, and he quickly turns his attention once more to Alan, who stifles a light snore and turns over._

_"Sam, what kind of question is that?"_

_Sam shifts, interlocking his hands in front of him, and smiles._

_"An innocent one."_

_"We're not at some girl's sleepover party," Edgar says flippantly, yanking his sleeping bag up to his chin. It's crazy, for its June and Sam is just lazing around in t-shirt and boxers. Edgar however, seems to be suddenly cold. "Guys don't ask questions like that."_

_"I'm not a normal guy..." Teasing slips into Sam's tone, and he lazily cuffs the back of Edgar's head. "Oh c'mon, Rambo. I mean..." He runs a red tongue over his lips, and holds up his hands affably. "If it makes you uncomfortable..."_

_"No."_

_Sam blinks._

_"What?"_

_"I've never..." Edgar's cheeks are pink. "I-I've never...shut up, Sam."_

_Sam's shoulders are shaking._

_"Well..." Edgar narrows his eyes at Sam's splitting grin. His voice is harsh. "Have you?"_

_"Yes," Sam's face is aching. "Loads of times. And I've been told I'm very good."_

_"Oh." Edgar coughs, adjusting himself, but not moving away, from a smirking Sam. His lip curls, most possibly at the prospect of an Emerson being more experienced in an area then the Frogs. "Good for you."_

_"I'm quite the Casanova, really."_

_"Haha."_

_Edgar turns his head to recant something potentially biting, but..._

_Sam gently leans forward, and places his lips over Edgar's._

_It's awkward and dry and strange, and oh, damn wonderful._

_Edgar is a little shocked, too much to move it seems, and Sam tilts his head, lightly deepening the kiss, and placing a hand on Edgar's shoulder. He strokes the grove of Edgar's neck, sliding off the sofa, and unknowingly forcing his saucer eyed friend back._

_He wants to trail fingers down Edgar's back, maybe touch the hard surface of his chest and the curves of his cheeks and the arch of his innermost thigh, but Sam isn't a fool._

_He pulls back, and grins again, but his face twinges._

_"Sam..." Edgar is leant back, his eyebrows knotted in confusion, and he discreetly feels the fading warmth on his mouth. "What the fuck...?"_

_"There," Sam says a little too sharply, for his smile is smarting. "Now you have."_

_"What was that, a birthday present?" Whether Edgar is trying to joke or what, Sam doesn't know, but the hard look in his eyes is worrying._

_"Maybe," Sam murmurs, flumping on his back beside his friend. "Now, if someone asks you, say yes. And you don't have to say who it was from."_

_"Sam..." Edgar hovers overhead, but his eyes have softened, and the weight in Sam's chest lessens slightly. "You are so freaking weird." He leans back against the sofa, and lets his eyes flutter shut. "And that's coming from a Frog brother."_

_If Edgar Frog was any sort of average guy, he would have swung from the chandelier. Fled the room in a screaming frenzy. But Edgar is Edgar, so he stoically freaks, then he accepts, and then he moves on._

_Sam doesn't want Edgar to move on, but you take what you get._

_"Hey..." He points towards the silent television. "I was watching that."_

.

.

.

.

He hadn't intended to be bitten.

Like a lot of things in his life, it was a mistake. A peculiar accident, that coming out of his rotten motel room, he would find Alan Frog on his balcony.

He seriously thought Alan would kill him. Hell, it might have been kinder to kill him, but after a fight that consisted of half the room being trashed and Alan dodging every attack imaginable, he found himself pinned to the bed and a laconic Alan hovering overhead.

He would have made a joke, but somehow his tongue was too heavy in his mouth and his joints ached from Alan's damn unholy pressure. He glowered up at Alan, not smiling...not saying anything at all. There must have been fear in his eyes, for Alan raised an eyebrow and almost affectionately drew a clawed finger down his cheek.

Then there were teeth gnashing at his neck; Alan's face contorted, revealing in perfect proportion the beast inside and there was blood and torn flesh and Sam too shocked to scream...

He can't say he remembers much of the period after, when Alan had wiped his mouth and smirked at the slow chill soaking into Sam's skin. It was almost comical really, him lying face up on the bed, eyes wide and unfocused, as something inside began to scurry and nip at his senses. Like the worst sort of awkward post coitus morning after. Paper was pushed into his palm, and with a tip of his hat, Alan was gone through the window.

Bastard didn't even call him back.

He had groggily peered at the inky scrawl.

Edgar's address, and suddenly, the world shifted back into focus.

.

.

.

He hadn't known what he was going to do once he got to Edgar.

All he knew was that he needed to get to Edgar, to be where Edgar was, to be near Edgar. True, there had been a time where that had been the only thing he’d ever wanted, but now, it no longer was a fleeting fancy but a damn purpose.

Inside, the monster was quiet, oddly quelled by this desire.

It seemed their wishes matched.

.

.

.

Warning Edgar about Alan's potential "score" was merely a cover.

As they walked, the urge to touch his long lost friend was damn near overwhelming. He had slung an arm around his shoulder, half holding him for support (even with the clouds, the sun was blinding) and for his own personal reasons.

Edgar was hard, roughened by life, and had been less than impressed by Sam's appearance and the tell tale bites, which had crusted into two nice little holes, perfect for Edgar's scorn.

You would never have believed they were friends. Especially the type of friendship they had with each other. Long suffering, intense, the sort of uncomfortable knowledge between them that could make or break them in an instant.

Sam was pretty much an expert on Edgar Frog, and yes, he was different. He seemed to possess a creeping violence in his stare, like an abused dog, which reared at the mention of Alan. That crackle of hurt had tingled the ends of Sam’s fingers that lingered on the dipped nape of Edgar’s neck.

"You're crazy, Sam," Edgar had murmured, but he had begrudgingly hauled the struggling half vampire into his truck and given him a place to stay.

Heh, not that different then.

As Edgar drove, Sam sleepily spoke to him, about anything and everything; old times, more precisely. And Edgar had been still, and silent, and let him speak, and the soft utterances of Sam's voice filled the spaces between them. It was cosy, almost human again, and Sam...typical of himself...cracked a weak joke about headbands, and true to form, Edgar told him to shut up but the sides of his mouth had eased, and the sight warmed Sam in ways it shouldn't.

.

.

.

That evening, the monster thundered through him, and the night, so sweet on his tongue, beckoned him.

He had fought it, for a short while. He was bunking in a small shed opposite Edgar's trailer, and the blissful irony...Edgar trusted him to stay put, to follow orders, but the teenage habits of taking orders were long past.

But oh, so hungry, so very hungry. And Edgar's blood smelled delicious, rich and thick and damn wonderful, but oh no, he shouldn't...

He had broken out, flurrying across the courtyard in a black blur, goaded by the abomination in his blood and the pound of Edgar's heart, pulsing in intoxicating rhythm, and ooohhhh, god...

It's like his humanity was breathed out in the air, on that last conversation they shared in Edgar's truck...it had waded out of him, threading itself into Edgar's skin, wishing to stay in familiar territory, and leaving behind a craving so colossal and beastly...

He finds a business man in the street, and drains him instead.

.

.

.

Later that night, Edgar is looking for him.

Sam knows this. He senses it, and smiles his monster smile.

The park is deserted. In the daytime, it's possibly quite nice, what with the low hanging branches and public tree houses. In the dark however, the branches become gnarled by shadow, and red pinpricks gleam from each window of the miniature houses.

He circles Edgar, whipping around the small circle of light that inhabits his figure and an old bench, and zipping just out of eyeshot each time Edgar scrutinises the darkness. It's fun for a little while, until spoil sport Eddie calls for Sam's appearance.

He's fed, but his urges mingle, and the copper scent of Edgar's blood isn't just tempting, but damn right beautiful, and Sam feels he'll starve without it. It's not just the blood. It's just Edgar, all of him, every last mortal inch, and Sam wants to hold him down until he stops fighting, until he pants and sweats with the effort, and then he just wants to open his jaws... all teeth and dark gullet...and consume him completely, swallow him and bind him within himself, bury him in bones and blood, and carry him for eternity.

The confrontation is ugly. Anger rises, cold fury bubbling effortlessly to the surface, for Edgar's eyes are bright with his new violence and yet his voice creaks with hesitation. Somehow, this thrills Sam, who is hateful and hungry and horny, and he just wants to _take._

They banter for a minute, drawing up old sins, and all Sam can see is the flash of Edgar's teeth, the soft downward tilt on his lips, and Sam sneers.

"Stay there!"

Edgar's sharp retort rips through the air. He doesn't want him near, and Sam shows his disapproval via the emergence of a palette of jagged fang.

.

.

.

Sam hurts him.

He shreds the flesh on his chest; tearing away at clothes and weaponry, throwing Edgar backwards at the bench, and yes, they do fight.

Edgar's humanity hasn't done him any favours. He has deliberately avoided crucial shots, and now he is here, lying beneath Sam, who is gazing down at him quizzically, pondering of what exactly to do with him. Maybe he shouldn't have been so quick to attack; Edgar keeps half fading into a faint, his temple bloodied after Sam struck him with considerable force.

Sam rests both hands on Edgar's chest, and smirks at the tangible shudder running through his friend.

He blearily blinks at the sky. A silver stripe ruptures the liquid black, and Sam's face softens. He lowers his head, close to Edgar's ear, and inhales the waft of cheap soap and dried blood.

"Did ya make a wish, bud?"

He chuckles crustily at the horror prominent in Edgar's face.

"Don't..." Edgar's voice is choked out, and Sam's smile fades at the animosity clawing his words. "Don't you dare speak like him."

An emergency stake is pulled. The pointed tip bites through his chest, and Sam gasps, blood pooling in his mouth.

He blacks out.

.

.

.

Edgar always did have rotten aim.

Tell that to Marko.

.

.

.

.

Sam adjusts his collar in the sinking black of his crypt.

The sun has set. The night crawls through every crumbling particulate of filth and dust, and whispers his name.

Ah, well. Time to hit the road.

He inhales, closes his eyes, and roars.

He crashes through the lid, the earth, the bundles of dusty lilies and sharp gravel in a swelling burst of air.

He calmly dusts the grime off his jacket. He removes his suit, keeping on his white shirt and black trousers, and discards the fussy cufflinks. He folds it neatly besides the wrecked grave. Maybe some bum will get lucky tonight. Hey, it's his good deed for the evening.

He runs a hand through his hair, and grins. He seriously hopes he hasn't got earthworm stuck in his teeth. He feels just to check, and almost crunches down on his finger; he is so thirsty.

Some poor widow is ambling towards him now, obviously alerted by the noise and confused by Sam's smile of greeting.

Ahhhh, perfect.

.

.

.

Edgar is packing away his vamp gear, locking away heavy artillery in the rickety shed outside his trailer. He bolts it tight with iron chains, and turns on his heel, marching towards the salt circle. He touches it thoughtfully, his jaw tightening, and Sam scurries across the courtyard in a whirl of black.

Edgar freezes, fingers poised over the salt.

Edgar looks tired. Withered by stress...his hair is unkempt, and he hasn't shaven. The clothes he wears are crumpled and old. Sam pouts at this display, and playfully clacks his nails against a drainpipe to attract his attention.

Edgar straightens up. His brow creases. He takes a deep breath, and unhooks a stake from his belt.

Oh god, not this again.

"Get off my land." He brandishes the stubby in warning. "I'm in no fucking mood for your shit."

Silence.

Edgar glowers at the surrounding darkness, before turning to enter the salt circle.

Sam stands, hands in pockets, between him and the trailer.

The stubby hits the ground. Edgar almost falls back on his feet, sweating profusely. His face is ashen.

There is nothing there. Dust rolls with the salt, gathering around his feet.

Edgar takes deep, gulping breaths. He wipes his forehead with a trembling hand, and rakes nails down the stubble on his cheeks. He chews his lower lip, and face darkening, he bolts over the salt circle, through the door, and slams it shut.

From the shadows, Sam snickers.

His diversion worked. The mar from Edgar's fingers broke the complete circle of salt, and therefore deemed it worthless.

Damn. You pull one tiny thread and the entire patchwork falls apart.

.

.

.

Edgar is laid across his bed.

Sam has watched him fighting sleep, battling the throes of emotional exhaustion, but alas, all in vain. His head is lolled to the side, his mouth askew. Sam snaps the locks beneath his fingers; lightly creaks open the door, and slips in.

His first instinct is to flee. The place is full of holy water, of garlic and crosses and other foul things dangerous to his sinful state. He balks at everything in sight, accidently knocking his head against a low swinging crucifix, and shit, maybe he isn't as good at this undead thing as he makes out.

Edgar mumbles in his sleep, and as Sam looms over him, his eyes are drawn to Edgar's hand.

It's a picture.

Of Alan, Edgar, and himself, back in the sun soaked glory days of Santa Carla.

Alan lazily gawks at the camera...typical son of a bitch, he was always so gormless. He has one hand resting on Sam's shoulder, and he himself is quirking one of his show stopping shit eating grins. Edgar isn't touching Sam, but is pressed close to his side; he glares at the camera with the same intensity he gave to everything, even the world. Even Sam at one point, but that had abated over time...

Edgar's fingers rest above the picture...or Sam's placement in the picture, to be exact, and the wearied hunter shakes, shudders, wound in his dreams, and Sam isn't sure...maybe he is imagining things, he could be...but Edgar's cheeks are wet.

Sam looks at the picture, then back at Edgar, and for the first time, he doesn't know what to do.

He lifts a hand, stroking the curve of Edgar's neck...but moves upwards, and instead brushes his hair from his eyes.

"What can I say, bud," he says softly. "It was fun while it lasted."

Edgar wakes, to an empty trailer, with nothing but the soft rattle of his open door and a lingering coolness teasing his mouth.

His picture has been propped opposite him.

The smiling baby blues of Sam Emerson shine at him in the dark.

.

.

.

Sam is thirsty. He breaks a woman's neck, lapping her blood like a starving dog.

Alan is waiting for him at the entrance to the cemetery.

Sam discards the remains of the girl, and grins at his old friend, red spoil staining his teeth.

"Still looking to settle that ol' score, bud?"

"My feelings haven't changed, Sam," Alan purrs, tilting his hat down over his eyes. Sam catches a glimpse of crimson, and smirks in challenge. "But it seems yours have."

"Why?" Sam shrugs, licking blood off his knuckles. "What, did you think I'd be like you?"

"I was..." Alan removes his hat, and his civil pretence. "Surprised by your choices."

Sam mimics Alan's sneer.

"I thought it'll be best if I stayed dead a little longer."

"That can be arranged permanently, if you wish," is Alan's cool reply, and as he raises his gaze, his face is already contorting; teeth lengthening, eyes a blistering rose hue. "But I don't plan to share my winnings, so to speak."

"I won't even let you near the jackpot." Sam's smirk is bitter. As he had dotted away into the icy grip of night, he had heard Edgar calling his name, and his gut wrenches with rancour at the memory.

"I'm warning you, Sam."

Sam stretches, rising to his full height. He peels back his lips, revealing notched, uneven spikes.

"Oh, man..." He extends his claws, and goes to charge. "I'm **trembling."**


End file.
